


Hold It In, Hold It In

by vintagecassette



Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Aftermath of Possession, Angst, Chaos!Fitzroy, Chaotic Fitzroy, Demons, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hellhounds, Hurt/Comfort, Maplekeene if you squint, Possession, Psychological Trauma, Spoilers, There's still some goofs in here I promise, Very mild body horror, obviously
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-27
Updated: 2020-08-23
Packaged: 2021-03-06 08:01:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25539937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vintagecassette/pseuds/vintagecassette
Summary: The war with Gray is quickly approaching, and the closer it gets, the harder Fitzroy tries to keep Chaos's influence at bay. He's positive he doesn't need their power to help him win, no matter how desperately it keeps trying to break free; he can handle this himself.Right?
Relationships: Master Firbolg & Argo Keene & Sir Fitzroy Maplecourt, The Thundermen & Althea Song
Comments: 46
Kudos: 78





	1. Chapter 1

Lately, Fitzroy has spent far more time staring out his window over the school grounds than he would like to admit. It certainly hasn’t been smooth sailing these past few months; the closer the war comes, the worse the demon attacks get, both in Last Hope and on campus. Last week alone saw two local shops destroyed by flames, and according to intel from Breeze Through the Willow, the Unknown Forest is crawling with too many beasts to count. Fitzroy’s body and mind are equally exhausted; he knows his friends’ are, too.

He surveys the sunset through his window now, trying to focus on the sky rather than the burned patches of withered grass at the edge of the forest. This is, of course, made difficult by the three pairs of glowing red eyes that catch his attention from between the trees.

“Looks like we’ve got visitors, fellas,” he says, turning to face his roommates.

“Do demons care nothing for de academic pursuits of as _piring aCCOUNTANTS?_ ” the Firbolg demands, turning away from the book he’s been reading and shaking his fists at the ceiling.

“I’m sure yer gonna ace that exam, Firby,” Argo says. He slides his rapier into its scabbard and yanks open the door. “But first: a nice evenin’ brawl.” With that, he takes off down the hall with the others at his heels.

As the three of them barrel outside and onto the sprawling lawn, a gruesome sight meets their eyes. Three hellhounds skulk toward them from the edge of the woods. Their lips are pulled back into snarls, revealing yellowed, razor sharp teeth that drip with strings of glistening saliva. Matted black fur covers their muscular bodies, oily enough that the light of the setting sun catches against it like flames. These dogs are huge, and these dogs are vicious. They inch ever closer as they wait for the right moment to strike.

“Alright, boys, let’s make this quick. I promised Snippers I’d read him a bedtime story,” Fitzroy says, and he sends his maul flying toward the hounds.

Argo is the next to strike, engulfing one of the beasts in roaring water as Fitzroy’s hammer strikes it in the side; the Firbolg strikes another with a blinding moonbeam. The third beast retaliates first, barreling toward Fitzroy and slamming him hard onto the ground. Argo drives Florence into its shoulder, and moments later, the Firbolg shoves it away. They help Fitzroy to his feet, and the battle continues.

The most bloodied of the hounds raises its hackles and bares its fangs. Its throat and belly begin to glow an angry red. The Firbolg makes to doge, but he’s not quick enough; a blast of fire catches him in the shoulder and knocks him prone. He groans, clutching at the burn with his free hand. Another lunges at Argo, clamping its jaw down on his leg and growling with satisfaction when he shouts in pain.

Looking at his injured friends, Fitzroy can feel the rage coming on; it tingles in his fingertips and stirs up grass and leaves at his feet. Beneath that, though, he feels something else: a surge of wild magic that’s desperate to break free. The feeling tugs at his stomach. It’s tempting, so tempting, and it would certainly finish this fight with ease…

“No, thanks,” Fitzroy says quietly, gritting his teeth. He can practically hear Chaos’s disappointed sigh in the back of his mind. “I can handle a few fire dogs.” He conjures Snippers in his palm just before the rage overtakes him, lobbing the crab into one hellhound’s eyes and swinging his maul at the stomach of another. He grins when they whimper. “Not so tough with a crab in your face, huh, buddy?” Snippers poofs out of existence as the beast claws at its muzzle; to Fitzroy’s dismay, the straining tug of the magic doesn’t vanish with him.

The beasts snarl. Argo and the Firbolg are back on their feet now, and they strike at the hounds with renewed passion, slashing swords and casting spells at lightspeed. Fitzroy joins the fray, swinging wildly at his foes, until two fall down dead and the third limps off into the forest, whining as it goes. He exhales triumphantly; he knows there’s no need for fancy chaotic magic when he can fight just fine the old fashioned way.

“That’s right!” he calls after it. “Yeah, run… run away. Hooh boy.” He lets his maul fall to his side as he comes down from his rage. While the wind dies out around him, it also seems to be sucked from his lungs, forcing him to place his hands on his knees and take a few deep breaths to try and recover.

“Nice goin’ there, Fitz,” Argo says. He slaps a hand against Fitzroy’s back and chuckles.

The Firbolg drums his fingers against his staff. “Dis is de third attack in a month,” he says pensively.

“Yep,” Fitzroy says. “Let’s hope there’s not a fourth, ‘cause I am extremely tired.”

“Dunno how we’re supposed to be amassin’ an army when we gotta waste our time killin’ demons every other week,” Argo says, adjusting his ponytail. “I hate to say it, but Gray’s really givin’ us a run fer our money.”

“I’m not even worried,” says Fitzroy, who is extremely worried. “We’re still gonna whoop his ass. You know what they say — pick a fight with the Thundermen, get your ass whooped.”

The Firbolg furrows his brow (or Fitzroy thinks he does; it’s hard to see under all that hair). “I have not heard dem say dis.”

“Well, I’m sayin’ it right now.” Fitzroy puts his hands on his hips. “The forces of evil are no match for the three of us. Not even when they’re twelve feet tall and very, very scary.”

“Ya got that right,” Argo says. “Now, whaddaya say we get somethin’ to eat? I could definitely go fer an orange or two after all that fightin’.”

“I vould also like dis,” the Firbolg says.

Fitzroy picks up his maul and takes one last look at the darkening sky. Tries to ignore the squirming of pent up magic in his bloodstream. “I’d say a dinner break is in order,” he agrees. “We’ve earned it.”

With that, he turns his back on the two smoldering hellhound carcasses that are slowly searing new burn marks into the emerald grass, and the Thundermen walk back toward the warm glow of Wiggenstaff’s.

* * *

It’s not that he’s _worried_ about Fitzroy. Argo knows he can handle himself, no doubt about it. But something’s been different about him lately. Something that tells him he should keep an eye out.

Practice duels and demon fights have been growing more tense. Fitzroy rages longer, harder, far more often than he did before. It’s impressive, and Jimson and Crush tell him so; he’s well on his way to being one of the most skilled fighters in their year. Argo can’t help but feel like there’s something underneath it all that needs to be addressed, but he can never find the right time to bring it up.

A few days after the hellhound attack, the Thundermen are out on the training field with Buckminster, Rainer, and Rhodes. They’re working on human shielding again in two separate teams, lobbing balls at one another and trying to distract the other team with any magic or swordplay that’s been dubbed safe for class.

“I vill do de blocking,” the Firbolg says.

“Sounds like a plan, big guy.” Argo gives him a thumbs up and turns to Fitzroy. “How ‘bout you? A good ol’ swing o’ the hammer? Maybe some fancy magic?”

Fitzroy scrunches his nose. “Mm, no magic today. I think I’ll just stick to punches. I’m super good at punches.”

“You are also wery good at thunder,” the Firbolg reminds him.

“So good! So good at thunder, yes,” Fitzroy says, “but I feel like punchin’ today.”

His teammates shrug; Argo can’t see anything wrong with that, and evidently, neither can the Firbolg, so they head out onto the field and assume their starting positions. It’s a warm day, not too sunny, with clouds passing lazily overhead — perfect weather for some fantasy dodgeball.

The opposing team smiles. Rainer sets the lights on her hovering chair to disco. Crush blows the whistle, and the game begins.

Surprisingly, the Firbolg lobs the first ball before moving into a defensive position. He comes close to catching Rhodes in the leg, but she dives into a somersault and rolls into the clear, sticking her tongue out at him as she goes.

Argo looks over at Fitzroy and can already see the rage brewing; his hair is lifting away from his face in a breeze that seems centered entirely around him, and he’s planting his feet, preparing to throw. He tosses the ball straight up, then slams his fist into it, hard. It flies from his hand, knocking right into Buckminster’s arm with a solid, powerful _thud_. Buck groans, but he’s a good sport about it as Fitzroy pumps a fist in the air. The Thundermen have scored a point.

The victory, however, is short lived; Rainer sends her own shot into Fitzroy’s stomach, eliciting an _oomph_ and knocking him prone. The rage dies just as soon as it started. Argo jogs over to help him up.

“Back on yer feet!” Argo says, offering him a hand. He ducks out of the way of a pitch from Buckminster, then hauls his friend off the ground. There’s a strange look in Fitzroy’s eye — almost like shell shock, as if the unexpected hit stunned him — but Argo brushes it off as the heat of the moment and runs off to find the nearest discarded ball.

They’re down three points when a shot comes sailing straight at Argo’s head. He sees it coming, but his brain doesn’t compute fast enough to tell him to dodge or duck. His teammates are too far away to do anything about it, he thinks — and just as he does, a fire bolt flies right past his face. It clips the edge of the dodgeball, knocking it perfectly off course. Argo is impressed for a second.

Then the fire continues its path and streaks straight into a completely unprepared Rainer.

While Crush calls a time out and hurries over to check Rainer’s wounds, Fitzroy just stands there, hand still partially outstretched, his eyes unfocused and his expression blank.

“Whoa, ya missed yer target a little there!” Argo says. He and the Firbolg approach him almost cautiously when he doesn’t reply. “Fitz?”

Fitzroy blinks, hard, and shakes his head quickly to either side. He glances at his hand, smoke trailing from his fingertips; then he looks at Rainer, who’s waving her teammates away but still pressing hard against the burn with a grimace. “I…”

“Feelin’ alright there, Fitzy?” Argo asks.

Fitzroy blinks again. “Oh, I — I’m great!” he says far too jovially. “Yeah, no, I just… mm.” He rubs at his forearm under his long sleeve and forces a smile. “Game’s just getting a little… chaotic. You know?”

Argo looks him up and down. “For everybody, or fer you?”

Fitzroy lets a short breath out through his nose. “I’m, uh. I’m gonna take a five. Tell Rainer I’m sorry for me.” And he heads off toward the stands.

~***~

They’re getting ready for bed when Argo finally works up the nerve to ask for real. “What happened durin’ training today, Fitz?”

He pauses in the act of retrieving pajamas from his dresser, then slides the drawer shut as if nothing happened. “What do you mean?”

“Nothin’, just… ya looked a little worse for wear fer a minute there. Little winded, little…”

“Nnnnnnervous,” the Firbolg supplies.

“I’m not sure what you guys are talking about,” Fitzroy says. He’s pointedly avoiding eye contact as he removes his glasses. “Personally, I think we all whooped some serious ass out there.”

Argo makes to reply that that’s precisely what he’s worried about — then Fitzroy takes off his shirt.

“Vhat is dat?” the Firbolg says. At the same moment, Argo leaps up from his bed, grabbing Fitzroy’s wrist before he can hide it away inside another sleeve.

The veins in Fitzroy’s left forearm are all wrong. They stand out far more prominently than they should, almost straining against the skin. From his wrist to the crook of his elbow, pale purples, greens, and grays twist around one another, just barely glowing with soft luminescence under the skin. They pulse in time with Fitzroy’s heartbeat.

“What’s goin’ on here?” Argo says.

Fitzroy jerks his arm out of Argo’s grip, turning his back, stuffing on his shirt, and climbing up into his bed. “Just a funky cold or something,” he says. “Maybe another curse. Who knows? It’s always somethin’ new with me, isn’t it?”

“Uh, yep,” Argo says, trying to play along despite his confusion. He notices Snippers scuttling back and forth along the dresser and scoops him up, setting him down at the foot of Fitzroy’s bunk.

He turns to look at the little spectral crab. It’s a long look, a heavy one. Then he dismisses him, and Snippers dissipates into the air, burbling quietly as he goes. Fitzroy lays down flat on his back and is silent.

Argo looks at the Firbolg with unbridled worry etched into every line on his face. He opens his mouth; the Firbolg cuts him off.

“I tink,” he says in a low voice, “for now, he is needing quiet and space. Ve should… allow him to have it.”

So Argo steps back, bites his tongue, and reluctantly goes to bed. He sleeps fitfully. He dreams of Fitzroy.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Thundermen finally get on the same page. Just as they do, everything falls apart.

The next time things go wrong, the Firbolg is seated on the grassy school grounds, weaving together wildflowers, while his friends study on the bench behind him. It’s been tough trying to focus on their schoolwork with the looming threat of the dean being an otherworldly demon, but they still make an effort when they find the time to.

“So,” Argo says, “how’re yer classes with Festo goin’?” The Firbolg turns where he sits to face the conversation, and he’s almost positive he sees Fitzroy tense.

“Good,” Fitzroy says. “Great. Super magic-y.” He doesn’t look up as he scratches away at his paper with a quill.

“Learned anythin’ new recently?”

“Whole bunch of stuff, yeah. Festo says I’m a very magic boy.”

Argo scratches at his head, evidently contemplating something. “That’s, uh, interestin’,” he says. “‘Cause I’ve… actually seen ya skippin’ yer last few classes. Not that I’ve been watchin’ ya, I just — you know, right place, right time.”

Fitzroy’s quill freezes on the paper for a moment before resuming its scratching. He says nothing.

“Youuuu have… run out of ink,” the Firbolg informs him, setting aside his flowers and pointing toward the line and a half of invisible scribbles his friend just wrote out.

“Ah. So I have. I’m so silly.” Fitzroy tries to dip his quill back into the pot, but it catches on the rim, tipping it over and spilling its contents all over the stone bench and the grass below it. He grumbles in frustration as he bends to pick it up — and it slips through his fingers again, tumbling to the ground. With a grunt, he rears his foot back to kick it. 

“Hey, slow down there, Fitz. It’s just a little spill,” Argo says, putting out a hand to stop him. He picks the inkwell up and corks it, then sets it calmly aside. “What’s got ya so worked up lately?”

“It’s nothing,” Fitzroy snaps. Without warning, he jerks his head to the right, letting out a hiss and pulling a face like something just pricked him. He sees the way the others are looking at him and scowls. “Just forget it. It’s not a big deal.”

“Dis seems to be a deal of moderate size,” the Firbolg says. Fitzroy glowers at him, then turns his head away — and when he does, the Firbolg catches a glimpse of something not quite right just below the collar of his shirt.

“Hey, what’s —?” He watches as Argo reaches curiously toward Fitzroy’s neck, evidently having seen it, too; before he can reach it, though, his hand is smacked away. Fitzroy keeps his wrist in a vise.

“Seriously, Argo, drop it. It’s nothing,” he says. The Firbolg has never been particularly good at picking up on vocal cues, but if he had to put a word to this tone, it would be _bitter._

“I’m just tryin’ to — _ow!_ ” Argo snatches his hand away, massaging his wrist, and Fitzroy stumbles two steps back. Upon closer inspection, the Firbolg sees a dozen tiny bolts of electricity fizzling on top of his skin. He shakes it out, exasperated and confused. “What was that for?”

Fitzroy is wearing that same dazed expression he did on the training field, looking down at his palm in apparent confusion. “I’m…” He shakes his head. “I…”

Seeing that Fitzroy is distracted, Argo reaches up again. His friend stands still as stone, pressing his fingers into fists and taking deep, slow breaths. Fitzroy just barely flinches away when his fingers make contact and tug the collar of his crisp white shirt down, revealing another spread of pulsing opalescent veins.

“Call me crazy, but this doesn’t come off as nothin’,” Argo says.

Fitzroy doesn’t respond.

“Is dis Chaos?” the Firbolg asks.

Fitzroy turns his gaze toward him, defiant as ever — and then his disorientation finally seems to crack. He lets out a heavy sigh as he pulls away from Argo’s touch, pressing a palm to his neck.

“I don’t want to worry you with it.”

Argo chuckles at that. “We’ve worried about plenty o’ crazy shit together,” he says. “We can handle one more thing.”

Fitzroy looks to him, then the Firbolg.

“I vould rather vorry vith you,” the Firbolg says, “than see you vorry alone.” He can tell his words aren’t completely convincing, so he stoops down to pick up the woven flowers he left on the grass. He tucks them gently behind his friend’s ear.

Fitzroy relents.

“The more I try to hold in my magic,” he says slowly, “the harder it tries to get out.” He lowers himself back onto the bench and taps his free fingers against it. “I’ve been trying to do things my way. You know, punching, smashing, hitting-with-hammer. Because I’m… I’m worried that if I stop trying to control it, if I let it out the way it wants me to, it’ll just explode. And that’ll get real messy.”

“So Chaos is tryin’ to force ya to go bananas on the bad guys?” Argo asks.

“It’s not just the bad guys,” Fitzroy says. He’s fiddling with the cufflink on his sleeve. “It’s… it’s all the time. It’s worst when I’m surprised, or I’m scared, or the two of you get hurt, but — I mean, I get a lousy grade, they want me to set fire to my desk and scare the teacher into passing me. We’re out on the practice field, they want me to knock Rainer unconscious so we can win some stupid game. Just now, Argo, all you did was try to _touch_ me, and —” a disgruntled sort of scoffing noise “— I don’t want to do it, of course I don’t, but it’s just — it’s so _hard_ to keep them locked up, and the more I try to keep the door shut…” He gestures halfheartedly at the veins on his neck and falls silent.

Without a word, the Firbolg stands up and sets a hand on Fitzroy’s shoulder. Argo does the same.

“Ve vill help as much as ve can,” he says. He feels Fitzroy relax, just a little. “I do not know vhat dis feels like, but I do know de feeling of fear. And… I know you also are feeling it. So ve vill try to help. You areeee scared, but you are… not alone.”

“Yeah,” Argo agrees. “We’ll always be here for ya. Even if you’ve got the embodiment of mayhem tryin’ to force crazy magic outta ya left and right.”

The Firbolg sees Fitzroy smile, just a little. He can sense sadness behind it, but the happy seems stronger. He smiles, too. He is also happy. He is happy to help his friend.

* * *

Things have seemed to calm down in Fitzroy’s brain since that chat. Although he can always feel Chaos’s power swirling beneath his skin, it hasn’t tried too hard to bubble up in a while. A full five days have passed without incident — but the longer the quiet lasts, the more tense he becomes. He’s glad, of course, that things have been somewhat peaceful; at the same time, he can’t help but wonder what Gray is planning next.

The answer to his worries comes in the dead of night, when Gary pipes up from his perch on the wall.

“Heyyy, fellas, wakey wakey!”

“Whatisit,” Fitzroy mumbles, rubbing his eyes as he comes out of his trance. Somehow, despite not having moved for the past three hours, he’s managed to get himself tangled in his bedsheets.

“Word on the street is there’s a whole buncha demons headed for Last Hope,” Gary says. “Some hellhounds, your ol’ Pit Fiend buddies, the whole nine. Might wanna get down there.”

The Firbolg lets out a long, slow exhale. “Mudderfucker,” he says, and the room is a flurry of motion.

The Thundermen dash around each other in a synchronous dance, grabbing capes and weapons and notebooks and boots. They’re out the door in a flash, and as they sprint from the building to the edge of the Unknown Forest, they see their classmates pouring out of the building as well and charging toward the stables. The Firbolg puts his fingers between his lips and gives a piercing whistle; moments later, three pegasi shoot up from between the trees.

Fitzroy scribbles a hasty note into the back of his notebook: _Last Hope. Send Althea._ Moments later comes a reply: _You got it. :)_

The second the pegasi touch down onto the grass, the Thundermen leap onto their backs. “Never a dull moment, huh, guys?” Fitzroy says, and their steeds take to the air.

They sail over the winding road as fast as Breeze and her friends can carry them. Everything is bathed in moonlight; through it, Fitzroy can see dozens of horses racing along down below, their riders charging toward Last Hope with weapons at the ready.

In the sky, there are storm clouds rolling in. They rumble distantly with thick, heavy thunder, threatening the type of rain that comes when the sky is angry and the heat is dry. Nonetheless, the party charges toward them. The sound of thunder fades into the sound of screams the closer they come to the town.

It’s complete and utter anarchy here. The town square is crawling with hellhounds and demons. Everyone from families to shopkeepers to bartenders flood the streets, fleeing from buildings that creak under the weight of long-clawed shadows on their roofs. People duck and cover as winged beasts swoop toward them from above. Growling sounds from all directions; children’s screams pierce the night. The pegasi land in the middle of the melee, scuffing their hooves nervously against the cobblestones, and fly off as soon as their riders dismount. Drinking in the scene, Fitzroy wonders how it could possibly get any worse.

Then he sees the Pit Fiend.

It’s the same one the Firbolg glued himself to months ago. ( _Great,_ we’ve already got beef.) He’s impossibly tall, towering so high over the other demons he makes them look like toy soldiers. Two curved horns protrude from either side of his red, leathery head, and teeth the size of stalactites jut from his jaw. His massive wings are tipped with spikes; his tail thrashes behind him. He lets out a roar the moment his blood red eyes land on the Thundermen, and for the first time in a while, Fitzroy feels fear.

“Alright, what’re we thinkin’?” Argo says as the creature approaches. “Wanna turn him into a catfish? I’ve heard yer good at that.”

Something inside of Fitzroy leaps at the proposition, but he forces it down. “No,” he says. “No magic. We’re doing this the right way.” And he raises his maul, charging toward the demon with his teammates in tow.

“Back for another round?” the fiend says, grinning his horribly toothy grin.

“Yes,” the Firbolg rumbles. “And dis time, ve vill be… vhooping your ass, as dey say.”

The fiend just laughs and lashes at the party with its tail. All three of them dodge out of the way, but the blow is so strong it cracks the stones beneath their feet. Fitzroy jumps the fissure and lands a solid swing at the fiend’s gut; moments later, the Firbolg catches him in a moonbeam. Argo follows close behind with a slash of his sword as the light begins to fade, and the Thundermen step back to admire their handiwork.

The demon doesn’t look remotely fazed. He surveys the scene around him; Rhodes is dodging around a hellhound. Buckminster is facing off against a shadow demon. There are imps pouring out of doorways with bottles and coins and (in one particular case) very confused cats in their grubby little hands. Classmates and professors alike are fighting with everything they have and then some.

It’s not nearly enough.

“This is the best you can do?” the Pit Fiend cackles. “Your forces are pitiful!”

“Your _mom_ is pitiful,” Fitzroy says, and Argo whoops behind him.

The demon considers the man below him for a moment before his face splits into an expression that can only be described as predatory. He lets out another bellowing laugh, takes a step forward, and rakes a jagged claw across Fitzroy’s arm.

He cries out in surprise and pain, stumbling away as a searing ache radiates from his shoulder to his fingertips. The shock sends a jolt through his whole body, stirring up his magic so quickly it feels like it’s boiling, making everything feel white hot. He gasps, overwhelmed; Argo and the Firbolg falter and turn to face him in response to his shout.

“Don’t worry about me, keep —!” Fitzroy starts, but he’s too late. This moment’s distraction was all the fiend needed to surge forward and snatch his friends up in its gargantuan hands. When he raises his hammer to retaliate, the fiend lashes its tail into his chest so hard it rattles his bones.

Fitzroy is on his back now, one hand clamped against the gash on his arm. He gapes in horror at the twelve-foot-tall mass of malice that holds Argo in one hand and the Firbolg in the other. All around him, people run. People scream. He doesn’t want them to get hurt, and those are his friends, his _best_ friends, the first _real_ friends he’s ever had, and they’re thrashing against the demon’s impossibly strong grip and their eyes are full of fear and Fitzroy can feel the power just beneath his skin begging to get out, to help fight, to wreak havoc.

He takes a shuddering breath.

He whispers _I’m sorry._

And he finally lets loose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Damn, chapter two is a little early for things to go this crazy, don't you think?" I laugh at your question. Things are gonna get exponentially crazier. There's nothing you can do to stop me.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We take a look inside Fitzroy's head, and what's going on in there isn't pretty. Chaos experiments with a new outfit. Argo tries to find his friend.

For a moment, everything is white. It’s not light, exactly; it’s just an unrelenting blankness, a gentle detachment. He sees once it fades that he’s back in the throne room, slumped in his wingback chair. It’s darker than it was on his first visit; the torches burn dimly in their brackets, throwing shadows across the floor and up the walls, and those thick velvet curtains still drape lavishly over the walls. Fitzroy presses himself to his feet and turns in a slow, careful circle, scanning the room for his host.

“Chaos?” he calls. The word echoes up into the ceiling, but no one replies. He registers distantly that he no longer feels any pain; a glance at his arm tells him his skin hasn’t sustained so much as a scratch. “Hey, listen,” he says to the room at large, “thanks a bunch for the healin’, but I’ve kinda got somewhere I need to be.”

“Oh, don’t be mistaken,” comes a voice from behind him. Fitzroy jumps and turns to face the sound. “You’re not healed.”

It’s Chaos, of course it is. But something about them is different. Rather than their usual resplendent robes, they sport an outfit that’s so familiar it makes Fitzroy squirm where he stands. A deep red capelet with golden clasps is draped across their shoulders; an array of glittering brooches adorns their crisp brown doublet. The corner of their mouth tips upward as they watch the gears click into place in Fitzroy’s brain: _they’re wearing his clothes._

“I’m gonna be honest here,” he says, trying to hold onto whatever shred of composure he has left. “I am very uncomfortable with the energy you’ve created in this extraplanar throne room today. You can totally pull off a cloak, no question on that front. Not _my_ cloak, though, you know? Not super cool of you to try and steal my brand like that. I’m trying to craft an image here.” When he doesn’t get a reply, he continues uncertainly. “It’s… it’s great to see you, it’s always a pleasure, but I should really get going, so… catch ya later?”

Chaos just smiles. “You won’t be going anywhere for awhile,” they say. Their voice is silky and soothing, but Fitzroy can’t help feeling like a mouse being stalked by a snake. “With the injuries you’ve sustained, I imagine returning to the battle now would shock you into unconsciousness. Your resistance has gotten you in quite a bad way.”

“I — okay, but I feel super fine, so if you could maybe just let me —”

“You’re not healed,” Chaos repeats. “ _You’re whole._ ”

Fitzroy blinks. “You realize how ominous that sounds, right?”

Ignoring him completely, Chaos waves a long-fingered hand at the velvet curtains that line the walls. When they pull back, Fitzroy’s heart skips a beat.

He’s looking at the battle he just left, and it’s frozen in time. Argo’s face is twisted in pain. The Firbolg claws at the gargantuan hand that’s wrapped around his torso. The sky is dark, but the streets are flooded with light from open windows and doors all along the square. Everything is shown in perfect detail, crisp and clear. The strangest thing about what he sees, though, is undoubtedly the point of view — he seems to be looking at the scene through his own eyes.

“What is this?” he says. His voice is so much softer than he meant it to be, and when he turns to look at Chaos, their expression is serene.

“This is the beginning,” they say. “And this is the end.”

Before Fitzroy can even open his mouth to reply, they vanish. “Wh — Chaos? _Chaos!_ ”

There’s movement on the wall. Fitzroy turns to look, and suddenly the scene is in motion again. He can hear it all perfectly; the growls of the hellhounds, the cackles of the demons. Argo and the Firbolg resume their struggling. Fists and magic alike fly in all directions. The Pit Fiend roars. It’s — well, it’s chaos. Without any input on his part, he sees himself get to his feet and turn around to face a cracked shop window. His reflection makes him audibly gasp.

Fitzroy’s eyes have gone completely white. They’re glowing faintly, pulsing with that same power he felt coursing through his veins mere minutes ago — and speaking of veins, something’s changed about those, too. They’re not just more prominent on his wrist or at his neck; they stand out against his skin from head to toe, angry and dark, shifting their hue in rippling waves. His entire body looks like it’s being overtaken by a luminescent spider web.

He’s practiced many a smirk in the mirror over the past few years, but the one that pulls at his mouth now is entirely not his. He sees himself reach up and adjust his cape, completely ignoring the searing pain that should’ve had his right bicep almost incapacitated by now. Those horrible glowing eyes stare right into their reflection, and Fitzroy hears his own voice say,

“I’m so _proud_ of you, Fitzroy. You are not going to regret this.”

In the throne room, Fitzroy runs up to the wall. “Wait,” he says, pounding a fist against it. “No!”

He sees himself raise his hands to the heavens. They crackle with electricity, and even from where he stands, Fitzroy can feel the sheer magnitude of the magic he’s been desperately trying to contain washing over him as it breaks free, sending bolts of lightning arcing toward the pitch black sky. It’s simultaneously the best and the worst thing he’s ever felt. It’s freeing. It’s exhilarating. It’s terrifying.

As Fitzroy falls to his knees, he hears the sound of gleeful laughter ringing in his ears. There’s nothing he can do but watch as, at long last, Chaos rushes in.

* * *

Everything seems to grind to a halt when Fitzroy gets back to his feet. Argo sees lightning fly up toward the sky in thick blue bolts, and by golly, that’s a bit theatrical even for Fitz, but it does make the Pit Fiend ever so slightly loosen its grip on his waist in surprise. He takes his chance, freeing his arm and driving Florence into the demon’s thumb. Its hand springs open as it roars; Argo tucks and rolls, landing on the balls of his feet, and sprints toward his teammate.

The closer he gets, the more evident it becomes that Fitzroy has thrown his insistence upon doing this “the right way” out the window. Wind whips around his body in a quickly building cyclone, stirring up his hair, his cloak, the debris at his feet. Another bolt of lightning cracks across the sky; this time, an earth shaking rumble of thunder accompanies it. This is the beginning of the sort of storm that would suck even the strongest ship below the waves.

Argo watches as Fitzroy flings a hand toward a building that’s swarming with hellhounds. A powerful gust sweeps the beasts up into the air and out of sight — but it also blows the roof clean off the edifice. It soars over the square, barely avoiding a circling pegasus, before crashing down on the Pit Fiend’s head. People scatter in terror as the creature roars, dropping the Firbolg unexpectedly to the ground and nearly crushing him underfoot. It’s clearly injured, but not enough to kill it —

Then lightning seems to claim it from the inside out. Its limbs jerk. Its knees lock. The fiend keels over, landing hard on its back, and stops moving.

“Fitz!” Argo shouts. He can barely hear his own voice over the sound of the maelstrom. Running against the wind is no easy feat, but he does it, forcing his way through the vortex that whips around his friend’s body until he finds himself in the eye of it. He’s mere feet away from Fitzroy now, and he calls his name again. This time, he turns around. Argo jumps when he sees his face, sees the way the eyes burn and the veins creep across his whole body like cobwebs.

“Ar-go-naut Keene,” Fitzroy says, leaning hard into each syllable. The air here is strangely still, strangely quiet. “Isn’t it beautiful?”

Argo blanches. “Isn’t, uh — isn’t what beautiful, ol’ buddy?”

“ _This_.” He makes a sweeping gesture toward the wreckage all around them. “Power. Pure and unrestrained. Free to do whatever it wants whenever it wishes.” Those empty eyes are boring into Argo’s with the strength of two tiny stars.

“It’s…” Argo’s gaze darts up and down Fitzroy’s frame, piecing things together as quickly as he can. He takes an infinitesimal step backward when the thought falls into place. “It’s chaos.”

Fitzroy just smiles.

“I’ll give ya this,” Argo says, trying his damndest to keep his cool, “it’s impressive. Lotta power, just like you said. Very power-y. Power all over. But I do have one question for ya, if you don’t mind.”

A calm nod. He steels himself.

“Where’s Fitzroy?”

In all honesty, Argo expects a brawl to start right then and there, but the figure in front of him only grins wider. He keeps a hand on Florence’s hilt just in case.

“He’s… given me the reins, as it were,” Chaos says through Fitzroy’s lips. “I can assure you he’s perfectly safe.”

“I’m not lookin’ for safe,” Argo says. “I’m lookin’ for _here._ Let him out.”

Chaos tilts Fitzroy’s head coyly to one side. “Not yet,” they say. “We’re only just getting started.”

“Started with what? It’s great that you’re helpin’, I’m not gonna tell ya not to, but — listen. If you want to use Fitz for yer grand plan, you’re gonna have to either prove to me that he’s cool with it or get through me first.” He puffs out his chest in a largely failed effort to mask his mounting panic.

“He has no desire to hurt you, Argonaut.”

“Then don’t make him.”

Chaos purses Fitzroy’s lips. “I will do what must be done for the sake of this battle. I would greatly prefer that you and Master Firbolg join me in my efforts, but if you want to stand in my way, that is perfectly acceptable. Just know that you must be willing to face the consequences.”

“I’m ready fer whatever consequences I’ve got comin’ my way if it means gettin’ you the hell outta Fitzroy’s head,” Argo says.

“Very well,” Chaos says, lifting a hand. “I can’t say I’m not disappointed, but now is not the time to argue with someone so… inconsequential.”

Argo readies a retort, but before he can speak, a gust of wind catches him in the stomach with the force of a thousand punches and sends him flying backward onto the cobblestones. The last thing he sees before he hits the ground is Fitzroy’s body, skin crackling with electricity, heralding the oncoming storm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If it were acceptable to make a chapter summary just the words "Uh oh," I think I would've done it for this one. Shit's about to go down.
> 
> I just realized I haven't plugged my tumblr on here yet! If you're in the market for more taz grad content, check out @/v1ntagecassette


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fitzroy fights. Argo babysits. The Firbolg finds help.

“Argo!” Fitzroy cries. He slams his fist into the wall yet again, then stumbles away from it toward the center of the room. “Hurting my friends was _not_ part of the deal!” he shouts at the ceiling. “I wanted to help them, not beat them senseless with fancy wind. You can’t do this!”

“But I can,” comes a lilting voice from all around him. “You can’t let a few casualties stand in the way of your destiny. If you want to win the war, you _need_ this power. You need to let me run free. You called on me in your darkest hour, Fitzroy. All I did was answer.”

“You — I didn’t want you to answer by taking over my actual, literal body and stripping me of my faculties,” he snaps back. “Magic is fine, magic’s cool, but I never asked for it. I never asked for any of this, I don’t _want_ this!”

“And yet,” says Chaos, “you need it. The way these people look at you is everything you’ve yearned for all these years. You are revered. You are respected. You are feared. You’re not some lonesome country bumpkin anymore. You are Sir Fitzroy Maplecourt, the Stormbringer, and you finally have the respect you deserve. The respect that I _gave_ you.” Their voice is right beside his ears now. They drop into a menacing whisper. “Stop. Trying. To control me.”

Fitzroy storms toward the wall and rips one of the curtains from it in fury. It billows down into a velvety heap at his feet. He can feel the rage bubbling up in his chest, blurring his vision —

And then Argo and the Firbolg are there, standing as tall as they can in the battering winds. They look angry. They look scared. If they stay here, they’re almost certainly going to die. Fitzroy tries to sense Chaos’s presence around him and feels nothing but empty air; he’s completely alone.

He presses his forehead to the wall and weeps.

* * *

“Alrighty, time fer round two,” Argo says under his breath. “Ready, Firby?”

The Firbolg nods and cups his massive hands around his mouth. “Feetzroy!” he shouts. “Ve are here to get you out.”

Chaos rolls Fitzroy’s eyes. “You seem to be confused,” they say. “Fitzroy will not be ‘getting out’ any time soon. The fun’s only just beginning.” They raise one unnaturally graceful hand with a flourish, and as they do, two bright bolts of lightning streak down from the roiling clouds. Each one strikes true. Argo and the Firbolg cry out in pain.

At the same time, Chaos flinches.

“Vaht vas dat?” the Firbolg wheezes.

“That was nothing.”

“No, that was something.” Argo lets out a weak chuckle. He raises his voice so Chaos can hear. “That was Fitzroy. Am I right, ol’ pal?”

“Even if you are,” Chaos says, striding closer, “it makes no difference. Fitzroy is mine, and he always has been.” Faster than Argo can think, they slash a dagger across his cheek, and he hisses before clumsily righting himself. “If he refuses to be my weapon, then he will become my vessel.”

“He does not belong to you,” the Firbolg growls. He tightens his grip on his staff.

“Hold on, Firbolg,” Argo says, holding one hand up carefully in front of him and pressing the other to his bleeding face. He forces himself to look into Fitzroy’s eyes. “Fitz, I know you can hear me. We saw ya in there just a second ago. Isn’t that right, Firby?” The Firbolg nods, and Argo continues, despite the way Chaos has encased Fitzroy’s hand in fizzling lightning. “We can help ya out with this, but only if you fight back, okay? C’mon. Yer a beefy boy, I know you can do it.”

“Wery beefy,” the Firbolg chimes in. “Wery strong.” Then another bolt catches him in the chest, and he doubles over.

“Please,” Argo says, forcing himself to ignore it. “We can’t do this without ya, Fitzroy. We need you. We all do.”

Chaos grits their teeth, evidently having had enough. Fitzroy’s other hand flashes with lightning now, and his fingers curl inward as the bolts glow brighter, matching the terrible light in his eyes.

Then that light flickers. Argo holds his breath. It flickers again.

“A- _agh._ ” The figure in front of him begins to shake. They try to speak, but their face is contorting in pain, and the electricity falters as the eyes squeeze tightly shut.

When they open again, the glow is gone, replaced with nothing short of pure panic.

“A-Argo,” the figure says. Presses fingers into fists. Takes one staggering step forward. “H-h-help me.”

Argo and the Firbolg rush forward in unison, each grabbing one of Fitzroy’s arms as he fights to stay on his feet. He’s breathing like he just ran a marathon. He shuts his eyes again, groaning with exertion, shaking his head as if he’s trying to ward off a thousand flies. The cyclone around them dies, but the storm rages on.

“Hey, Fitz,” Argo says as calmly as he can. “We’ve got ya, buddy. We’re not goin’ anywhere. We got ya un-cursed, and we can get ya un-Chaosed. Just stay with us, alright?”

He sucks in air through clenched teeth. The veins are creeping up his cheek now, more prominent, more angry than Argo’s ever seen them. “T-they’re — they’re v-very strong,” Fitzroy says. “I don’t know h-how long I can — _ah_ — h-hold them back.”

“Vhere… is Chaos?” the Firbolg asks.

“Locked up,” Fitzroy says. His knees buckle slightly.

“For how long?” Argo asks. His hand comes away bloody when he shifts his grip on his friend’s arm.

Fitzroy gasps and doesn’t reply.

“I vill find Althea,” the Firbolg says, his voice resolute. “She has helped many times. Maybe she vill help again, ah?”

“Yeah, go, go,” Argo says. He drapes Fitzroy’s arm over his shoulder and lowers them both to the ground as the Firbolg disappears into the crowd. “Okay, it’s just you an’ me now. Firby’ll be back soon.” A sharp whine escapes Fitzroy’s lips, and Argo asks, “How bad are ya hurt?”

“Just, like, the n-normal am— _ah,_ Christ. That was a huge lie, I-I’m real fucked up.”

Argo curses under his breath, wishing he knew any decent healing spells. “We’ll get someone to patch ya up, no worries. I’m sure the Firbolg’ll be back soon, um… Why don’t I… I’ll read ya some more Larry the Lime! How ‘bout that?”

In spite of everything, Argo swears he hears Fitzroy laugh.

“Now this chapter’s a big one,” he says, pulling words straight out of his ass, “so listen close. Larry’s in a bit of a pickle this time —”

“Argo,” Fitzroy mutters.

“— and it’s gonna be a tough one to get out of, so —”

“Argo.”

“— he’s gonna need to call up his pal Quella the Quisenberry to —”

“ _Argo._ ”

“Yeah?”

“I’m so s-sorry.” Fitzroy groans again. His breathing grows more labored. “I just w-wanted to help, I j-just wanted to stop you all from getting h- _hurt_ , and I g-got distracted, and —”

“Hey, don’t be sorry, boy-o,” Argo says a little more forcefully than he means to. “Ya did good. Really clobbered that fiend, huh?”

He says nothing for a moment. Then, softly: “I d-didn’t want to hurt you.” With one trembling hand, he reaches upward and touches the cut on Argo’s cheek. His arm jerks away moments later and wraps around his own stomach as he grimaces.

“I know,” Argo says. “But it’s okay, really. Barely even a scratch. And besides, I know ya didn’t charge me with a blade. That was Chaos, plain and simple. None o’ this is your fault.”

Fitzroy manages to look into his eyes, and to Argo’s surprise, they’re brimming with tears. “I let them out,” he says. “I — I l-let loose. I did exactly what they wanted, Argo, and now — now I — _aah._ ” He curls in on himself, and Argo instinctively wraps both arms around his shaking frame, holding him tight.

“Just stay with me, Fitz,” he says. “Just a little longer.”

Fitzroy whimpers. Argo prays that the Firbolg comes back quick.

* * *

When the Firbolg finds Althea, she’s firing off spells at a shadow demon. Just as it lifts up a skeletal hand to take a swing at her, the Firbolg grabs her by the wrist, yanking her hard and dragging her out of the creature’s reach. Its talon strikes stone instead of flesh. It lets out a screech, then flies off to find a new combatant.

“Wh — Master Firbolg,” Althea says in surprise. She takes in his limp, stares at the hand pressed to his gut. “What’s going on?”

“It is Feetzroy,” he says. “Someting is… wrong. Ve are asking that you… help him again.”

Despite the confusion that’s plastered across her face, she nods. “Lead the way.”

They return to the center of the square, where a perfect, clean circle of debris has been blasted away from the cobblestones — somehow, the melee never crosses its perimeter. In the middle of it, Argo sits on the ground. His arms are wrapped around a shivering Fitzroy, who’s been heaved partially onto his lap, his head cradled against Argo’s shoulder. Argo is smoothing his hair, rocking him slightly. Althea hurries over to crouch beside them.

“What’s wrong with him?” she asks. She checks his pulse, presses the back of her hand to his forehead. “Fitzroy, can you hear me? God, you’re burning up. Is this another curse?”

“Nope,” he says weakly. A cough rattles his chest. “No, this is m-my — my patron, I suppose, and they are _very_ cross with me.” A laugh turns into a wince. He balls a fist into Argo’s shirt.

“Oh my goodness,” Althea says, leaning back. “This is possession?”

“That’d be the word fer it,” Argo says.

The Firbolg moves closer. “Can you get de chaos out?” he asks.

“I — I mean, I don’t know, I —” Althea’s hands are shaking. She sucks a breath in through her nose, trying to compose herself, and gets back on Fitzroy’s level. A warm glow emanates from one of her hands, which she holds over his right arm; a wound that the Firbolg had almost forgotten was there closes itself up under a tattered, bloody sleeve. “I can try to help you, Fitzroy, but I need more time. I’m really not sure if —”

Her words are cut short by the slashing of a massive talon mere inches in front of her face, and she screams. Argo twists his body to shield Fitzroy, who gasps and shudders, as Althea jumps up into a fighting stance to face the returned shadow demon. The Firbolg readies his staff, coming to stand beside her.

And without warning, Fitzroy puts both hands on Argo’s chest and shoves him, hard. “Y-you need to run,” he says, scrambling backward. His eyes just barely flicker with a hint of burning light. “They don’t c-care about you anymore, you’re in the way, you — you need to kill me, or you need to run.”

“What? We’re not killin’ ya, Fitz, that’s outta the question,” Argo splutters, tripping to his feet. He goes to say something more, but he falters when he sees the way Fitzroy has started to convulse.

“Ve should move,” the Firbolg says. He places a hand on Argo’s shoulder, but Argo shakes it off.

“We’re not leavin’ him!”

“Ve are not leaving,” the Firbolg says slowly. “Ve are moving.” He watches Fitzroy bend over, clutching at his head. “It is time to move.”

There’s a moment of heavy silence; then Argo relents. The three of them turn and run, sprinting through the battle that still rages on all sides, taking cover just inside the doorway of an inn. There’s nothing they can do but watch as lightning consumes Fitzroy’s body, and Chaos emerges again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can you tell this is one of my favorite tropes? Can you tell I eat this shit up like candy because it's so unbelievably tasty? Also: special thanks this week go out to Griffin Andrew McElroy for watering my crops with ace Fitzroy rights.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fitzroy gets a talking to. Things get turbulent. The Thundermen have a business meeting.

Fitzroy lands flat on his back on the cold marble floor. He’s staring up at that stupidly ornate arched ceiling, and the pain is gone, but the frustration is stronger than ever. When he glances at the wall, the image on it is frozen; all he can see is blinding white light. He blinks and Chaos is standing over him.

“You put up an impressive fight, but there is no need to resist this, Fitzroy.” they say. He’s probably imagining it, but he swears they sound the slightest bit more winded than before. “This is your purpose. We will stop the Demon Prince, and we will remake the world.”

He closes his eyes, half in exhaustion and half in defiance. “I’m gonna be super real with you right now,” he mumbles. “I get what you’re going for. I get that the power you have feels good. Real good. But honestly?” He looks Chaos right in the eyes. “I don’t think the world you want is any better than Gray’s.”

For the first time since Fitzroy has met them, Chaos’s expression goes sour. “I’ve given you everything,” they hiss. “Your name evokes awe. You have power beyond mortal comprehension. I’ve given you a future where you can be _king,_ and this is how you thank me?”

“Technically, you showed me a future where I still had about eighty percent of my free will, which was much tastier than what you’re cookin’ up right now. And either way —” Fitzroy drags himself upright and stares into Chaos’s face “— you gave me what you thought I wanted. Everything I’ve really needed, though?” He thinks of Argo. Of the Firbolg. Of the friends he never imagined he’d make and the life he never thought he’d live. “I found that for myself.”

Chaos surveys him for a moment, drinking in the set of his jaw and the fire in his eyes. “You’re wrong, little farm boy,” they say. There’s something almost like pity in their tone.

“I’m actually quite a big farm boy now —”

They vanish again.

“Dammit,” Fitzroy whispers. Then again, louder: “ _Dammit!_ ”

Up on the wall, the scene resumes.

* * *

“So, this Chaos,” Althea says over the cacophony outside. “Who are they? Where did they come from?”

Argo is pacing between upturned chairs, fingers tangled in his hair. It’s hard to think when he’s devoting so much of his brain power to not looking at the battle. “They’re, ah… I dunno. They made the Godscar Chasm, they gave Fitz his magic, they’ve been tryin’ to get us all over to the dark side fer a good while now. They wanna stop Gray, but… I dunno what comes after if they do.”

“Okay,” Althea says. She’s got her palms pressed to the window sill as she peers outside, keeping an eye on the destruction as it unfolds. “Do they have a physical form?”

“Nnnnnnnnno,” the Firbolg says. “Ve do not tink so.”

“So we need to force an incorporeal, immensely powerful being out of Fitzroy’s head and back to wherever they came from, which in theory could be the Godscar Chasm but in reality could quite literally be anywhere, all while trying to derail the destruction of an entire town.”

Argo nods. “Pretty much.”

Althea chuckles incredulously.

There’s a tremendous crash from outside, and Argo’s at the doorway in an instant. He has to squint at first to find the source of the sound; once he does, he can’t take his eyes off it.

Fitzroy is hovering five feet above the ground, arms outstretched. The roof Chaos brought down upon the Pit Fiend’s head has flown across the square. Beneath it, a mess of hellhounds and demons lay unmoving. Argo is almost impressed — but then he realizes that some of the limbs sticking out of the wreckage are unmistakably human, elven, dwarvish. The forces of Chaos are beating Gray’s army, that’s for certain. They’re also putting civilian lives at unspeakable risk to do so.

“D’you think we could knock ‘em out?” Argo asks, tearing his gaze away from the scene. “Would that do anything?”

“De vind is too strong,” the Firbolg says. His voice is almost somber. “And… even if ve could hit dem, I do not tink we can make Chaos… unnnnnconscious.”

“Then we need another way in,” Althea says. “Somehow, we have to get Fitzroy back in the driver’s seat.”

“And once he’s there?” Argo says, trying not to sound too frantic. “Who’s to say Chaos won’t just wrestle him back in again? Fitzroy’s a tough guy, I know he is, but how’s he supposed to do this all on his own?”

The Firbolg moves toward the door. “He vill not be alone,” he says. “He vill have us. A strong business model builds its foundation on trust and commmmunication. Thun-der-man, LLC. vill not leave its C-E-O behind.”

For the first time tonight, Argo manages a smile. “Alright,” he says. “Then let’s make it happen.” He looks from the Firbolg to Althea, winks, and dashes into the mayhem.

The battle is significantly tougher to run through this time around. Swords clash, thunder rumbles, lightning rips across the sky. All the while, Gray’s forces and innocent bystanders alike are thrown about in the wind. Shutters are ripped from Barb’s tavern and slam into a hellhound’s panting maw; across the square, heroes and sidekicks try to separate the victims from the enemies amidst the piles of rubble. Even the demons are giving Fitzroy’s body as wide a berth as they can. Most of the nearby buildings are still intact, but if Chaos keeps this up, they won’t be for much longer.

“Stick with me!” Argo shouts, praying that his comrades can hear him over the tumult. He skirts under a wing, jumps a cracked fountain, and barely evades the tip of a tail that swings in his direction as he rushes through the melee. The wind grows stronger the closer he gets to Fitzroy’s hovering form; he’s struggling to keep his feet on the ground.

“ _Duck!_ ” Althea screams from behind him, and he does. A jet of light sails right through the place where his head was seconds before and connects with a demon, which stumbles out of their path and into the wall of a shop. The wood splinters under its weight.

Every two steps brings a new obstacle; it’s like Fitzroy is at the end of a fun house hallway that seems to never get shorter, no matter how far they run. Bangs and screams sound from every direction. Thunder shakes the earth beneath their feet. Argo can barely tell where he is anymore; he’s just running, dodging, desperately hoping that he’ll reach his friend in time —

And then they’ve made it. The three of them stand just outside the newly formed twister that sends debris whirling in a ten foot circle around Fitzroy’s body, waiting for Chaos’s gaze to land on them. When it does, Argo can feel his heartbeat jump into his throat. He feels small. He hesitantly draws his sword.

“I’m afraid that won’t do you much good,” Chaos says in a strange, echoing whisper. They lower their arms and pensively tap a finger against Fitzroy’s chin. “For the sake of conversation, why don’t you join me inside?”

Argo feels Althea tug him backward as the cyclone stops spinning. He brushes her off, glancing at the Firbolg. They all step into the ring.

The moment they do, the wind picks up yet again, sealing them inside. At least here, the gusts and the rubble can’t batter them. It’s just the three of them, Chaos, and Fitzroy, trapped somewhere deep in the annals of his own mind.

“May ve… speak vith him?” the Firbolg asks.

“I don’t see why you would need to.” Chaos flicks their wrist, and another hellhound goes flying. It lands far away with a sickening crunch.

“He doesn’t really seem to be a-okay with all this,” Argo says. He’s got Florence’s hilt in a death grip. “He was fightin’ ya pretty hard. Are ya sure this is what he wants?”

“This is not a matter of what Fitzroy wants,” Chaos lilts. “This is a matter of what he needs.” They hold up a finger when Argo tries to speak, then continue: “Fitzroy needs my power to defeat Gray’s army. If he succeeds, you all succeed. You will earn the future I showed you all those months ago.”

“Then why not let him use it himself?” Argo demands.

“Yes,” the Firbolg says. “Vhy must you… steal his mind in dis vay?”

Chaos twists Fitzroy’s mouth into something that toes the line between a smile and a smirk. It makes Argo’s blood boil. “Fitzroy is more than capable of wielding this power. He has proven himself many times. Unfortunately, he lacks the… ah, how to put it… the _tenacity_ to wield it to its full potential. I’ve given him everything he needs to win this fight, but he refused to truly let loose. And so, once he opened the door…” They spread Fitzroy’s hands. “I took control.”

“He doesn’t seem to enjoy having you ‘take control,’” Althea observes. She’s speaking cautiously, but there’s still an underlying certainty to her words.

“In time, he will.” Chaos lifts their hand again, graceful as ever, and conjures a crackling mass of voltage in Fitzroy’s palm. “Now I suggest you leave and let me do what needs to be done. As dear Fitzroy said, I don’t particularly care whether any of you live or die. If you value your lives, it would be in your best interests to run far, far away.”

“Ve are not running,” the Firbolg says. He draws himself up to his full height, staff raised.

Chaos sighs. “So be it,” they say. The Firbolg takes a defensive position, ready to parry the blast — at the last moment, though, Fitzroy’s arm jerks just slightly to the left. The shot connects with a nearby cloud of imps instead of the Firbolg’s body.

“Youuuuu missed,” he points out. Chaos blinks just a little too hard.

“Looks like someone’s at that door ya mentioned,” Argo says, allowing the tiniest spark of hope to catch in his chest. “Might wanna let ‘em in, yeah? Don’t wanna keep ‘em waiting.”

Chaos twists Fitzroy’s face into a sneer — and then it twitches. The wind starts to stutter.

“Fitz?”

His body starts to descend, slowly but surely, from where it levitates. The toes of his boots touch down onto the ground.

“Dis seems promising, ah?” the Firbolg says, nudging Argo’s side.

“Shh,” he replies.

Fitzroy stumbles slightly. He looks up; his eyes are his own again. “What’d I miss?” he says. Despite the tightness in his voice, he’s wearing a shit eating grin.

“Not much,” Argo says, and he’s beaming.

“Fitzroy, it is so good to see you, but I have a feeling we don’t have a lot of time,” Althea says, a note of urgency in her tone. “You need to get Chaos out.”

His head jolts to the side. He flinches. “Ooh, they were _not_ a fan of that,” he says through a stuttering laugh.

“Brute strength isn’t going to be enough,” Althea says. Argo can practically hear the gears turning in her head as she tries to puzzle this out. “You’ll have to find another way to —”

“Brute strength is kinda my thing, though,” Fitzroy says. He scoops his maul up from where Chaos discarded it on the ground and leans on it like a cane. “Maybe I could j-just beat ‘em up real good.” He jumps unexpectedly like someone just punched him in the gut. “No? Okay. Ne— _ah_ — never mind.”

“Okay, company brainstorm,” Argo says. He tugs a dagger out of its scabbard and starts flipping it around his hand as he tries to think. “Chaos keeps takin’ ya over because you won’t unleash all their crazy magic, right?”

Fitzroy nods stiffly. The Firbolg hums in thought.

“Have youuu tried… doing dis?”

“Have — what?”

“Unnnnleashing de crazy magic,” he says like it’s obvious. “Not for panic. Not for fear. You are a capable C-E-O. Dis does not need to be like Sylllllvia Nite. You have grown. You are strong.”

They all go quiet for a moment, revelling in the Firbolg’s words with an air of vague surprise.

“Huh,” Fitzroy says, breaking the silence. His hands have started to shake. “When all this is over, I may have to promote you to Head Motivational Speaker.”

“So… what’s that mean?” Argo asks.

“It m-means,” Fitzroy says, “I think I know what to do.” Every muscle in his body is tensed as if he’s trying to stave off shivers, but there’s a glint in his eye.

“Do what you need to do,” Althea says. “We’ll be right behind you.”

“A-alright,” Fitzroy says, chest heaving. “I’m gonna dip for a minute, but I’ll — I’ll be back.”

“Promise?” Argo says.

Fitzroy takes a breath. He meets Argo’s eyes. And he collapses onto the ground.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your patience with this chapter! The tropical storm hit us pretty hard, and my power's been out for a good three days now, so I'm posting this from a house with wifi and two very handsome cats. Hope y'all enjoyed!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A business associate is laid off. A friend wakes up. The fight finally ends.

He’s sitting comfortably in his wingback chair, legs tossed over the armrest. For a moment, he just lounges there, drinking in the peace and quiet in a way that he hasn’t quite appreciated tonight. Then he kicks himself to his feet and begins striding away from his throne.

“This is your eviction notice,” Fitzroy calls out to the empty room. The click of his heels against the marble echoes up the walls. “Please get the fresh hell out of my noggin.”

A slight breeze ruffles the velvet curtains. “You’re the one who invited me in, Sir Fitzroy.” Chaos’s voice surrounds him, but he can’t see them anywhere.

“Oh, come on. Face me like a big kid,” Fitzroy says. “Trying to be all sneaky and mysterious is getting, like, super old.”

Chaos materializes in front of him, wearing their own magnificent robes again. Their skin shimmers in the low light as they clasp their hands neatly in front of them. For a moment, Fitzroy actually regrets summoning them like this; they look far more like a force to be reckoned with and far less like a child playing dress up.

“You wanted to see me?” they ask, all patience and cordiality.

A curt nod. “I’ve been thinking about our little arrangement.”

“Oh?”

“Yep. And it stinks.”

Chaos arches an eyebrow.

“You’ve been using me like a puppet,” Fitzroy says, “since the day you turned up. When we met, you called me your weapon, but come on. We both know that’s just a fancy word for your own personal marionette. I really — excuse me, let me finish — I don’t care whether or not you did it to… to ‘help me.’ To fulfill some ‘greater purpose.’ You jerked me around like a toy, all because you thought I just couldn’t handle this on my own. And maybe you were right! Maybe I couldn’t. But now…”

Fitzroy breathes in, opens his palm, and conjures a wild, flickering flame above it.

And for just barely a second, he sees Chaos’s blank eyes go wide. That’s when the thought strikes him.

This may be Chaos’s domain, but it’s his now, too.

“Chaos,” he says, “I am grateful for the magic you’ve given me. And you know what? I should’ve been this whole gosh dang time. That would’ve made things a lot easier on my end.”

They cock their head; flowing white hair spills in ripples over their shoulder.

“All this time, I’ve been trying to keep you locked up unless I really needed you,” Fitzroy says. He’s walking in a wide sort of circle now, and Chaos is, too, keeping a perfectly equal distance between them. “You kept… exploding out of me, and that freaked me the heck out, because whenever you did, somebody would get hurt.” He pauses. “Or, you know. Turn into a catfish.”

“I did rather enjoy that one.”

“I’m sure you did. But I’ve realized that that was my whole problem. I loved your power, and I was also remarkably scared of it, so I’d keep it all pent up until it exploded again, and then I’d get even _more_ scared, and the cycle would just keep on goin’.” Fitzroy tents his fingers in front of him. “I’m gonna keep using the magic now, because frankly, it’s cool as hell. I’ll keep my friends safe with it, and I’ll absolutely wreck Gray’s shit with it. There’s one thing, though, that I won’t be needing.”

“And what is that?” Chaos asks. Fitzroy smiles.

“You.”

They stop walking.

“You were wrong,” Fitzroy says. “I didn’t lack ‘tenacity.’ I just didn’t know how to use your power without it blowing up, because I was so busy trying to control it, I never thought to just… vibe with it. It’s what you’ve been telling me all along. I just didn’t listen.”

Chaos scoffs. “So what are you saying?”

“I’m saying I’m a big boy,” Fitzroy says, “both literally and figuratively. I don’t need you to rip this magic out of my hands and use it for me. So thanks for the help, but no thanks. You’re dismissed.”

“ _What?_ ”

Fitzroy closes the gap between them in four long strides, still grinning like a fool. “ _I don’t need you,_ ” he says with perfect, practiced diction. “You. Are. Dismissed.”

Chaos loses their composure all at once, and to anyone less smugly overconfident, it would be a terrifying sight. Their ever-present calm cracks down the middle as their face curls into a snarl. Their eyes flash. Their skin glows. They grab Fitzroy by the collar and pull him so close, they’re nose to nose. As they do, there’s a burst of blinding light, and the room is consumed. Fitzroy’s ears ring. Everything goes white.

* * *

Fitzroy is on the ground. He’s muttering to himself, squirming where he lays. Althea reaches him first, but she moves back as Argo skids to his knees beside him with the Firbolg on his heels. He scoops Fitzroy up for the second time this evening; the fact that his friend can’t speak this time around somehow makes it even worse than before.

“Can we help?” Althea says.

“No,” the Firbolg replies. “He must do dis on his own.”

Althea nods, and Argo resigns himself to simply watch, cradling Fitzroy’s writhing body in his arms, trying not to let the tears fall as he sees Fitz’s eyes roll back in his head. This is like Calhain’s curse amplified by ten thousand. The worst part of it is that he can feel Althea and the Firbolg standing behind him, unmoving, just… holding their breath. There’s no white-hot stamp to bring him back to his senses, no coward’s hand to slice off in revenge. This is Fitzroy’s fight, and there’s nothing Argo can do to help him.

Of course, he tries anyway.

“I got ya, Fitz,” he whispers. “You kick that bastard out, alright? I know you can do it. We’re right here, just like we always are. We’re gonna take good care of ya.”

Fitzroy just shudders.

Argo holds him tighter as the Firbolg sits carefully down beside him, placing a thick hand on Fitzroy’s shoulder. Althea joins him, gently grasping Fitzroy’s arm. Biting his lip, Argo looks up to the sky and waits. It feels like hours go by. It feels like years.

Then the shaking stops. The breathing stops. Everything stops.

And Fitzroy lurches upright, gasping like he’s just broken the surface of frigid water.

In a flash, they’re all helping him up, patting him down, waiting for a sign that this is him, that he did it, that he won. There’s a groan, and then:

“If anyone wants to carry me back to school, I’m ready to zonk the heck out for the next, like, eighteen hours.”

He’s swept up into a crushing hug faster than he can draw in his next breath. Once everyone lets him go, Argo takes him by the shoulders and leans back, looking him up and down. His forehead is damp with sweat and his clothes are bloodied, but even as Argo watches, the glowing veins are starting to recede, giving way to smooth skin.

“How ya feelin, bud?” Argo says. If he smiles any wider, he’s sure he’ll sprain a muscle in his face.

“Like I just got hit by a wagon,” Fitzroy says, “and then that wagon doubled back to run me over, and then the horse pulling the wagon stomped on me a whole bunch with its hooves. But, like, brain wise? Absolutely fantastic. Feels great to just have one of me in there.”

“Let’s get you somewhere safe,” Althea says, standing up and dodging a rogue imp as it rockets past her head. “You need to rest, and then we’ll get you back to school.”

“Actually,” Fitzroy says, attempting to clamber to his feet, “I’ve got some business to attend to real quick. My epically long nap can wait a minute.”

The Firbolg stoops to help him up, keeping a hand on his back to make sure he’s steady, and says, “Vhat are you planning to do?”

Fitzroy adjusts his cape. “They didn’t name me the Stormbringer for nothing,” he says. “Now stay close to me. Things are… about to get freaky.”

Argo rises as well; for once, he has nothing to say. The four of them stand shoulder to shoulder, trusting each other blindly, as Fitzroy once again casts his arms toward the sky.

* * *

The magic ripples under his skin just like it always does. His stomach lurches, telling him to stamp it down, but he ignores the impulse. He may not have wanted this magic to begin with, but it’s his now — and by gosh, he’s gonna learn to love it if it’s the last thing he ever does.

Fitzroy feels something on his shoulder. He glances down and Snippers is there, burbling happily up at him as the magic rises to the surface.

“Hey, buddy,” he says.

“Cshcwrchwschrsch,” Snippers replies.

“Alrighty,” Argo says. He’s bouncing on the balls of his feet and twirling his daggers, his gaze darting between whatever demons remain that Chaos didn’t destroy. They’re starting to get back on their feet now; the fire in their eyes is frightening. “What’s the plan here, Fitz?”

“There isn’t one.”

Althea makes a spluttering noise.

“There’s no point in planning,” he says, arms still aloft. “You can’t control chaos — I mean, it’s in the name, it’s literally chaos — but there’s a fun twist! It can’t control me, either. Not anymore.”

“Annnnnnd… vhat does dis mean?” the Firbolg asks.

Fitzroy spreads his hands. “It means,” he says, “it’s time to fuckin’ party.”

The wind whips up once more, but it’s different this time. It doesn’t carry the same sort of threat as before — it’s less of a twister and more of a hurricane. Overhead, the clouds rumble, and the sky finally opens up. What falls from it is definitely not rain.

Somehow, a technicolor light show has begun pouring down from the heavens. Brilliant streaks of neon — green, pink, purple, red — shoot toward the ground in all different directions, whizzing like firecrackers as they go. Fitzroy sends one flying at a shadow demon; the moment it makes contact with the creature’s skeletal body, it explodes like a flashbang, mingling particles of demon dust and shimmering light that settle innocently on the stones.

It’s like this all over. Demons are exploding, thunder is rumbling, lights are flashing. As soon as the shock wears off, the rest of Fitzroy’s companions launch themselves back into battle, fighting with a renewed passion as lights strobe all around them. From across the square, Fitzroy sees a bolt streaking toward Rainer rather than the fiend in front of her — without thinking, he sends a gust of wind straight at her, sending her chair flying back and out of the way of a hot pink ray that makes a crater in the ground. She recovers and calls her small skeletal army back toward her, giving Fitzroy a wink as she does so.

Fitzroy looks toward Argo and the Firbolg. They’re fighting side by side — and, he realizes, giving him cover. This wouldn’t be going nearly as smoothly if Fitzroy had a demon of his own to face off against; his friends are keeping them all at bay to let him do what he needs to. He really couldn’t have been stuck with better sidekicks.

If this were a movie, a fantastically fitting disco song would be playing underneath the scene right now. Fitzroy feels like he’s dancing as he whirls around, sending ray after ray of blinding light at anything that threatens his classmates. When a bolt comes too close for comfort to Argo and the Firbolg, he swats it away and into a snarling hellhound. His cape whips in the wind. Power surges through his body. There are bangs and whoops and screeches everywhere he turns. It’s chaos in its purest form, and for once, it’s incredible.

Until suddenly, everything is quiet.

The dust finally begins to settle as the night air slowly goes quiet. The demons have stopped moving; the hellhounds are still. All around, heroes and villains are cautiously lowering their weapons, letting themselves consider the possibility that, at long last, the fight might be done.

“That was certainly somethin’, wasn’t it, fellas?” Argo says. His voice is hushed, but it wavers with a note of glee. He looks at Fitzroy with eyes that practically glimmer despite the exhaustion that rests behind them.

“You could say that,” Fitzroy agrees, wobbling slightly where he stands as the adrenaline seeps out of his bloodstream. For a moment, he worries he might topple over — but then the Firbolg is there, strong and sturdy, keeping a heavy hand on his shoulder. The three of them just stand like that for a moment, revelling in the quiet.

Across the square, a door swings open, letting a soft yellow light spill out onto the cobblestones. A figure stands outside the doorway with a hand on the knob and a bloodhawk perched on her shoulder. She peers through into the graciously undamaged tavern for a moment, then turns to face the crowd of battle worn students before her. She gives a nod and gestures inside.

The war is far from over — technically, it hasn’t even begun. There’s debris to be cleaned and wreckage to be repaired. But as he looks around at his battered companions, Fitzroy decides that those are tomorrow’s problems.

“Drinks are on me, fellas,” he says. “I think we’ve earned it.”

The Firbolg nods. Argo smiles. Together, under a cloudy sky that’s slowly beginning to give way to stars, they disappear into the tavern.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's finally done!! Please accept my sincere apologies for this chapter taking so long; I got sick, I got distracted, and writer's block hit me like a train. Thank y'all so so much for your kind comments on this story. Let me know if you've got any suggestions for what I should write next!

**Author's Note:**

> I intended for this to be a short piece. It completely ran away from me.
> 
> Shoutout to @/yellowmagicalgirl on tumblr for the post that inspired this whole thing!


End file.
